Chapter Text
PJ squinted, the morning sun glinting off the aluminum siding of the trailer. It was one cramped room serving as a bedroom, living area, and kitchen all at once. At least the bathroom was its own tiny cubicle. His mom, Peg, had somehow found a trailer park on the outskirts of Spoonerville. It wasn't much, but it meant Goofy wouldn't have to go back to their old trailer in the city, and Max wouldn't have to switch schools again.
"Ah-yuck! Well, fellars! Welcome to our brand new home," Goofy exclaimed as he wrestled a large box through the narrow doorway.
With a forced grin, Max looked around the place. "It's really cozy."
Peg plastered on a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Cozy is… certainly a word for it, Max." She glanced at PJ, urging him to play along.
"The coziest," he mumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Pistol, however, had no such filters. "It's small!" She pointed a small finger at the single bed tucked into a corner. "And there's only one bed! Where will Max sleep?"
Goofy chuckled. "Why, we'll make it work, Pistol!"
Max nodded. "Yeah! We can, uh, take turns! Or maybe I can sleep on the floor! It's, like, super close to the fridge that way, for midnight snacks!" He winked, but the wink looked more like a tic.
Peg's smile wavered. "Oh, Maxi-kins, are you sure…?"
"Positive, Mrs. P! It's like camping, but… indoors!" Max interrupted, practically bouncing.
Still unconvinced, Pistol tugged on Peg's shirt. "But it smells funny, Mommy. Like Dad's feet after he takes off his shoes and socks."
Goofy cleared his throat loudly. "That, Pistol, is the smell of uppi-tunity! It's got that author-tic trailer park bouquet!" He gestured grandly at the miniature kitchen counter. "Look at this counter space! Plenty of room for… well, for something!"
PJ surveyed the "counter space." It was barely big enough for a toaster. "Yeah, lots of room," he echoed, trying to sound enthusiastic. He caught Max's eye, and for a split second, the forced bravado slipped, revealing a flicker of genuine despair. Max quickly recovered, giving another over-the-top grin.
"And the view!" Max exclaimed, gesturing out the single small window, which offered a dazzling vista of a neighboring trailer's rusty propane tank. "It's so… expansive!"
"It's a propane tank," Pistol stated flatly.
Goofy looked defeated, then a slow, real smile spread across his face. "Well, fellars, it ain't exactly a palace, that's for sure."
Max slumped onto the bumpy sofa. "Yeah, it's even smaller than our old trailer."
Peg put an arm around Goofy's shoulder. "We'll make it work, Goofykins. Right, kids?"
A somber nod from PJ and Pistol instantly brightened to feigned enthusiasm as Max glanced their way.
~*~*~*~*~
PJ stared out the car window, watching the last of the trailer park disappear behind them. The aluminum boxes had looked even sadder in the fading afternoon light.
"Well," Peg sighed, her grip on the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. "That was… an experience."
PJ nodded, still feeling a knot in his stomach. "It was pretty gloomy, Mom."
Peg sighed. "If only Goofy agreed to stay with us for a bit longer. I offered, but he was adamant."
"He probably doesn't want to be a bother," PJ mumbled.
From the back seat, Pistol piped up. "But we tried to help, Mommy! Me and PJ! We did lots, and lots of chores to get Maxie's house back!"
Peg glanced in the rearview mirror, her expression softening. "You certainly did, Muffin Pie. You both worked so hard."
"It wasn't enough, though," PJ muttered.
"I know, honey," Peg said, reaching over to pat his knee. "But I am so incredibly proud of both of you for trying. That was a really kind and thoughtful thing to do."
PJ sighed, leaning his head against the cool window. It still felt awful, though, knowing his best friend was not going to be living next door.
~*~*~*~*~
The bus ride was a total disaster. PJ usually relied on Max to run interference during the morning gauntlet, but today, Max's seat was empty. Just as PJ thought he might snag a whole row to himself, a shadow fell over him. Bulldog, who didn't just earn his name, patented the very concept of "bulldog," landed with the grace of a dropped anvil, wallpapering PJ against the window. His reeking backpack performed a rib massage. Each jostle of the bus was a fresh new hell for PJ's midsection. He was finally able to breathe when they reached the school.
"Hey, have you seen Max?" he asked a group of kids by the bike racks.
"Nah, not today," one shrugged.
He tried another. "Is Max around?"
"Nope, haven't seen him."
PJ looked around, there was no sign of Max. The bus didn't go all the way out to that trailer park, it was too far. How was Max even supposed to get here? Mr. G had to sell his car for much-needed money.
First period Social Studies with Mr. Hammerhead was usually pretty dull, but today, the empty seat beside PJ screamed louder than any lecture. Mr. Hammerhead was already deep into his lesson on poverty through the lens of economic inequality.
"Okay, class, when some people are rich and others are poor, how can that make them start trouble or fighting?"
Rose raised her hand. She was the smartest and prettiest girl in class in PJ's humble opinion. "It makes the people with less feel unhappy and mad, like it's unfair. This can cause big tensions and make them want to stand up and fight for change."
"Precisely, Rose! Excellent!" Mr. Hammerhead beamed, just as some wisecracking kid in the back mumbled, "So, like, if I have more cookies than you, you'll start a cookie revolution?" Another piped up, "Yeah, I'm feeling pretty marginalized by my allowance." Mr. Hammerhead's hammer-like forehead wrinkled in disapproval, but he wisely chose to ignore the cookie commentary.
Just then, PJ noticed the classroom door crack open slightly. A pair of familiar eyes peered in, then Max's head slowly followed. PJ's relief was instant, quickly followed by panic. Mr. Hammerhead was heading towards the door, lecturing about the French Revolution. PJ subtly motioned to Max, a frantic "STAY!" expressed through hand gestures and wide eyes. Max understood, his head ducking back out of sight just as Mr. Hammerhead passed.
When the teacher turned away, engrossed in a debate with another student, PJ waved Max in. Max began to crawl into the classroom, clutching his backpack and his skateboard. He moved with annoying slowness, trying to be completely silent. PJ held his breath, willing him to make it.
Then, a voice pierced the silence. "Speaking of poverty…" Todd the Rod pointed a dramatic finger at Max's crawling form.
Mr. Hammerhead spun around, his eyes widening to the size of car wheels. Caught red-handed, or maybe, red-kneed, Max awkwardly unfolded himself from his crouch, his face flushed, eyes glued to the floor. The kids in class erupted into uncontrolled laughter.
"Max, why are you late?" Mr. Hammerhead demanded, trying to regain control of his classroom.
PJ jumped in. "It's not his fault, Mr. Hammerhead! His new house is really far, and the bus doesn't even go there!"
Sara chimed in with a cruel smirk, "Yeah, to the trailer park!"
The laughter intensified, morphing into a chant. "Trailer trash! Trailer trash!" they jeered, pointing fingers. Mr. Hammerhead tried to shout over the din, "Alright, that is enough! Settle down, all of you!" But the kids just kept laughing, their faces contorted into mocking grins.
PJ looked at his friend. Max was standing there, his fists clenched, his whole body shaking with anger.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"You should've seen him in school, Pistol," PJ muttered, slumping onto Pistol's pink beanbag chair. "Everyone kept calling him trailer trash even during recess and throwing actual trash at him."
Perched on her bed arranging her collection of plastic ponies, Pistol paused her pony alignment. "Well, at least he'll have plenty of practice dodging, like in dodgeball!"
"Pistol!" PJ yelled, his voice cracking with exasperation.
"Sorry, sorry!" she repeated, her eyes wide. "But what can we do? Should we do a lemonade stand?"
PJ scoffed. "A million lemonade stands won't even buy him a new doormat."
Pistol's brow furrowed in thought, then her eyes lit up. "PJ! Remember Mommy's funny rich friend? Mrs. Willowbee?"
PJ blinked. "You mean Mrs. Willoughby?"
"Yes! Her!" Pistol bounced on her bed. "Can't she like, save Mr. G's house?"
PJ considered it. "Maybe," he said slowly. "Maybe she could lend him a loan."
The siblings stared at each other for a second. Then, as if on cue, they launched themselves off their respective perches and thundered down the stairs towards the living room.
"Mom! Mom!" PJ yelled, skidding to a halt in the doorway.
"Mommy! Mommy!" Pistol shrieked, right on his heels.
Engrossed in her favorite soap opera, their mom barely registered their arrival. "Mmm-hmm, just a minute, kids," she murmured, waving a dismissive hand.
PJ and Pistol started talking at once, a jumble of words about Mr. G, Maxie, the trailer, and the rich friend. Peg's head snapped towards them, her patience clearly wearing thin, then let out a sharp, "QUIET!"
She turned to PJ, her eyebrow raised. "Alright, one at a time. PJ?"
"Mom, remember your friend…"
Pistol burst in, "Mrs. WilliamBuy!"
"Yeah, I mean, no, Pistol, Mrs. Willoughby," PJ corrected, shooting his sister a glare. "Mom, can't she help Mr. G and Max get their house back?"
Peg sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Aw, kids. Goofy won't accept money from people. Remember when your dad tried to help him and he refused? He's too proud."
"But what about a loan?" PJ pressed, stepping closer. "Can't you just ask her? If she agrees, we'll try to convince Mr. G!"
Peg looked at their earnest, worried faces, then back at the phone. She let out another sigh, but this one was softer. "Alright, alright. I'll call her."
PJ and Pistol erupted in silent cheers, doing a little victory dance. They watched as Peg picked up the phone and began to dial.
"Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Willoughby please?" Peg paused. "Tell her it's Peg."
Pistol whispered into PJ's ear. "She's so rich she's got someone else answering the phone for her."
"Mrs. Willoughby? Yes, I'm fine, how are you?… Listen, I was wondering if I could pop by sometime soon… I had something I wanted to discuss… Uh-huh… uh-huh… Oh, really?… I see… Yes, of course… Thank you, Mrs. Willoughby. You too. Bye-bye."
She hung up the phone, a slight frown on her face. PJ and Pistol rushed forward, their eyes wide with expectation.
"What'd she say?!" PJ asked, practically vibrating.
"Did she say yes?!" Pistol chimed in, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Peg offered a small, apologetic smile. "She's expecting some relatives, the Uppercrusts. She said she can see me later next week."
"Next week?" PJ exclaimed. "Max is gonna get so much more trash thrown at him, he'll practically be wearing a recycling bin."
"Sorry, honey," Peg said sympathetically and returned to her soap.
Pistol put her hands on her hips. "PJ, if Mommy can't help us, we have to help ourselves."
"What do you mean?" PJ asked.
Pistol's eyes gleamed with determination. "We're gonna pay Mrs. WillaPie a visit!"
~*~*~*~*~
The wrought-iron gates of Mrs. Willoughby's mansion loomed over them like something out of a fancy movie. PJ and Pistol pressed their faces against the cold metal bars, their noses squished between the decorative spikes. The sheer size of the place was intimidating, like a very expensive castle.
"Okay, so," PJ whispered, his voice muffled by the gate, "how exactly are we supposed to get inside? Do we ring the bell? Do we… knock on the gate?" He felt ridiculous just asking.
Pistol, however, was already pointing a small finger through the bars. "Look, PJ! Maybe he can help us!"
PJ followed her gaze. Inside the perfectly manicured gardens, sitting on a pristine white bench, was a boy. He looked a few years older than PJ, maybe thirteen or fourteen, and was impossibly thin, dressed in a shirt and pants that probably cost more than PJ's entire wardrobe. He was hunched over a sketchbook, drawing something.
PJ grimaced. "Nah, he looks too much like a weenie to help us."
With no warning, Pistol cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, "YO, WEENIE! WEENIE! CAN YOU HELP US?!"
The boy on the bench lifted his head, looking at them. His nose wrinkled as he gave them a disdainful glance, then went right back to his drawing.
Pistol gasped.
"Told ya," PJ muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Total weenie."
Pistol took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks, and then, at the very top of her lungs, shrieked, "YO, WEENIE! COME OVER HERE!"
The boy's head snapped up. He slammed his sketchbook shut, his thin lips pressed into a furious line. He then huffed dramatically and stalked towards the gate.
"What do you beggars want?" He peered down at them.
PJ's face flushed. "Beggars?! Hey! Our mom is friends with Mrs. Willoughby, and we wanna talk to her!"
The boy let out a snobby little laugh. "There's no way you lowlifes know my great-aunt. She only associates with people of a certain caliber."
Pistol poked her finger through the gate, almost touching his pristine shirt. "Hey, weenie, can you help us in or not?"
The boy glared at her, his eyes narrowing. "That's not my name!"
"But it suits you well!" Pistol said in feigned innocence. PJ chuckled.
"If you must know," he said, puffing out his chest, "my name is Bradley Uppercrust the Third."